Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 04 (17 page)

           
"My lord?" I stared.

           
"Homana is not my enemy. I'm
not wishing to see your father broken by that Ihlini demon or even Alaric's
spite. Go wed your Atvian cousin, and take yourself home to your father."

           
Hope sprang up.
"And—Deirdre?"

           
"She stays," he told me
flatly. "My daughter will be no man's mistress, no matter how much honor
it claims before the Cheysuli." He sighed. "But I will be asking
something of ye, lad. A pledge. And this one ye'll not be breaking; Liam will
see to that."

           
I touched my aching face. "Aye,
my lord. I give it willingly."

           
"Ierne is due to bear the child
soon. Be that child a girl, let her wed your firstborn son. Or the next one for
your next one, if this one is not a girl and that one not a boy. But I want it,
lad. I want a granddaughter of Shea of Erinn to be queen in Homana one
day."

           
I smiled. "A fair enough
exchange, my lord. A daughter of mine for Sean, a granddaughter of yours for my
heir-I think it will please the gods."

           
" Twill be pleasing me,"
Shea growled. "And 'twill be enough, I'm thinking."

           
I put out my filthy hand to the man.
He did not seem to notice as he folded it in his. "Deirdre—" I began.

           
"No," he said. "I'll
be giving her your farewell."

           
After a moment, I nodded. But I knew
it would not be the same.

           
I had been bathed, shaved, garbed in
fresh clothing.

           
No longer did I stink. But it did
not wash away the sorrow I felt at leaving Deirdre behind.

           
It was Liam himself who came to
escort me to the ship.

           
He was sternness itself with his
hard, stark face; he said nothing at all as he preceded me down the twisting
stairway to the entryway. We were met by the eleven men who had accompanied him
the day I was rescued. Rescued and taken captive.

           
There was little enough sunlight.
Liam's brassy curls were dulled by the gray of the day, as much as by his unusual
solemnity. His mouth, in the beard, worked a little; the words at last issued
forth.

           
"Where would you go, lad,
before we send you to your bride?"

           
Where would I go? To Deirdre, of
course . . . and yet I knew if I asked it, he would deny me the thing I most
wanted.

           
I looked out into the muted
sunlight. "To the tor," I said. "To the altar of the
cileann."

           
Liam's green eyes flickered. Still,
he did not smile. He nodded, once, and gave the order for us to mount. Eleven
prince's men; one heir to Shea's wild aerie; one hostage foreigner. Together,
we rode out to the tor.

           
In daylight, with the sun well up,
the place was different. Much different. I tasted no magic; smelled no hint of
ancient power. And all I saw was an altar full of memories.

           
Deirdre. Deirdre and her colt. And
the lirless man who loved her.

           
Liam's eleven men remained on
horseback some distance away. Liam came closer, but even he gave me what
distance he could. Privacy enough, for the moment. And so I used it. I used it
to stand on the tor outside the old chalk circle and give Deirdre my good-bye.

           
"Time to go," Liam said,
when he saw me lift an arm to scrub briefly at my face.

           
Aye. . . time to go. I turned. The
Prince of Erinn held the reins of my horse. I walked down from the tor, took
them out of his gloved hand and mounted the pale gray gelding. And thought of
Deirdre's wild laughter as she rode headlong at the edge of the chalky
headlands overlooking the Dragon's Tail.

           
"Lad," Liam said; all I
could do was nod.

           
The escort stopped short of the
dock. I boarded slowly, so slowly, then swung back to grip the rail. Liam stood
on the dock. The wind whipped his brassy curls and reddened his high, sharp
cheekbones, tugging at his beard.

           
His cat-green eyes were cool.
"So, puppy, you leave Erinn a wealthy man."

           
"Wealthy?"

           
"You've gained my father's
trust, won my sister's love, and have pledged children neither of us yet have,
saving Sean. Ye leave with a little pinch more than ye came with."

           
The wind stripped freshly-washed
hair out of my face.

           
"Perhaps you should have thrown
me back into the sea the day you found me. ..." I squinted against the
wind. "Perhaps you should have let the dragon have me."

           
"No," he said. "You
were too sickly, too battered. Not worth the trouble to feed an Erinnish
dragon, I'm thinking there would have been little pleasure in it."

           
"The pledge we made together,
and the one I made with your father—" I shrugged. "You will be king
after Shea. It is for you to break them, if it is truly what you desire."

           
Liam bent and spat off the dock into
the Dragon's Tail. He folded his arms across a broad chest. "I'm thinking
not. I'm thinking I'm not much of a man for breaking pledges. Unlike you."

           
I clutched the rail. "I can
sail to Atvia later. We can settle this matter now. With knives or swords or
fists." I grinned. "I leave it to you, my lord."

           
Reluctantly, Liam grinned. The green
cloak fastened to his wide shoulders curled and cracked in the wind.

           
"We are of a like size, I'm
thinking, lad. I have spent nearly fifteen of my twenty-nine years fighting
Atvians, and you are Cheysuli—even without the lir. I'm thinking 'twould not be
so wise to strip Donal and Shea of their sons in a silly, boyish battle that
could get either—or both—of us slain." He shrugged. "Besides, my
sister loves you. Where's the sense in beating a man for that?"

           
I laughed. "But it would have
been something to see."

           
Liam, sighing, nodded. "Aye,
'twould. Well—perhaps another day, puppy. Now get you to Atvia."

           
I leaned over the rail as he gave
the signal for the boat to be cast off. "Liam—a message for Deirdre?"

           
He squinted into the wind.
"What would you be saying to her now?"

           
"That if she wants me—if she needs
me—do not hesitate to send word. Even to Homana. I promise I will come."

           
"I'll be caring for her
here."

           
"Liam—“

           
"No, lad. She needs no more of
you." He stared hard at me. Then his bearded face softened. "But I'll
be telling her what you said."

           
I clung to the rail as the ship
moved out into the channel. Wind-whipped swells crashed against the prow.

           
But I hardly noticed. I watched the
dark bulwark of the Aerie silhouetted against the sky and then I watched the
Erinnish shore. Until all I could see was the green speck of Liam's cloak. And
then I turned my face to Atvia.

           
And to my Cheysuli bride.

           
Rondule, like Shea's city of
Kilore
, was a fishing port.

           
Except for minor differences in
architecture, I saw no real distinction between Rondule and Kilore, or between
Rondule and Homana's own Hondarth, for that matter. I had sailed hundreds of
leagues westward, and yet I saw little that made this part of the world any
different from my own.

           
Until I heard the language. In eight
months with Shea and his folk, I had grown accustomed to the lyrical lilt of
the Erinnish tongue, which was little different from Homanan except for nuances
and a few words held over from the old days of Erinn. I did not doubt that I had
acquired a trace of the accent myself, after so many months. But I knew I would
never acquire the sound of Atvia, no matter how long I stayed on the island.

           
I thought it an ugly language,
choked with consonants rather than vowels, and those spoken harshly. It was a
sibilant tongue that put me in mind of a serpent hissing in the darkness. I did
not much like the imagery. More than ever wished I could avoid Atvia
altogether.

           
The boat docked. In Erinnish finery
borrowed from

           
Liam (though we were both big men,
the clothing did not fit well; the gods had put us together differently) I
disembarked into a maelstrom of activity. The tide was turning; time for the
fisherfolk to return home with the day's catch. And I in the middle of it.

           
I heard the hissing chatter of the
men as they hauled in the nets; the women as they hastened down to help their
men. I smelled fish everywhere. It clogged my nose and insinuated itself in my
mouth, my clothing, my hair. A fleeting thought told me it had been no
different in Kilore, but I chose to see Rondule in a harsher light.

           
"My lord." A boy's voice,
speaking accented Homanan.

           
The familiar words were almost
throttled in his throat, but I could decipher them. Just.

           
He was half my height, clothed in a
bright blue tunic.

           
An intricate border in white yam
drew my eyes; it was very nearly Erinnish knotwork. But there was a difference.
Just as there was in the boy's attitude toward me.

           
He was not rude, not precisely, but
neither was he as warm as the Erinnish.

           
"Aye," I said shortly.
"Has Alaric sent you to fetch me?"

           
He did not smile. I Judged him ten,
twelve; his brown eyes were older. "If you are Niall of Homana."

           
"Oh. I think so. And you,
boy?"

           
"Belen," he answered. He
pointed at two horses tied nearby, waiting patiently. "Come."

           
I came. Belen led me through the
twisting cobbled streets toward the center of the city. And when we had reached
it, I found myself having to close my mouth because I did not wish the boy to
see my awe.

           
Like Kilore, Alaric's fortress
perched atop a rocky cliff. But his did not have the headlands and heaths
stretching in all directions. Instead, the castle capped a palisade that jutted
up from the center of the city. The promontory was cone-shaped but lacked a
smooth, uniform roundness, displaying craggy flanks full of crevices and
treacherous faults in the stone itself. I saw no road or path at all winding
its way up to the castle on top of the world. And I began to understand why
Shea had told me, again and again, that a frontal assault on Alaric's castle
was the strategy of a madman—or a fool.

           
Being neither, he never tried. They
fight their wars on the seas and beaches.

           
"Come." Belen set heels to
his spotted horse.

           
There was a path after all. It
followed the natural grain of the stone, rising, twisting, zigzagging through
faults and square-cut protrusions. Here and there pockets of turf carpeted the
terraced face, but most of it was rock.

           
Hard, cold rock.

           
The wind beat at my face, threading
tiny fingers through the weave of my borrowed garb. I shivered. Belen, ahead, did
not seem to notice the chilly breath of the dragon.

           
He rode steadily onward, always
ascending, never looking back. I heard the familiar wailing song of the dragon
as its exhalations curled around the rocks and buffeted me front and back. I
thought of Deirdre. I thought of the chalky, wind-whipped heights of Erinn, so
close I could nearly touch them. I had only to put out my hand and reach across
the Dragon's Tail, and Deirdre would be mine.

           
"Dragon's Teeth." The boy
had turned in his saddle.

           
He jerked his head a little,
indicating the rocky ramparts of the cliffs. "The castle is beyond."

           
Higher still, and then atop the
promontory. The wind spat into my face.

           
"Castle," Belen said.

           
A boy of few words. But I paid no
mind to him. I looked instead at Alaric's fortress.

           
Unassailable, aye; no man foolish
enough to risk himself against certain death would ever try to take the castle.
Perhaps Rondule, or other cities. But never the actual fortress. Like Homana-Mujhar,
it was invulnerable.

           
But once, Homana-Mujhar had fallen.

           
Belen led me through a barbican gate
warded by six massive portcullises and into the outer bailey beyond.

           
Guards hedged the sentry-walks and
battlements. Colored pennons snapped in the wind. I heard the echoes of iron on
cobbles as we entered the inner bailey.

           
Boys came running for the horses. I
dismounted, hissed a bit as the landing jarred my bruised thigh, nodded
irritably as Belen motioned me to follow. One might think I was the prisoner
here, instead of Gisella's betrothed.

           
The boy took me through candlelit
corridors and into a private chamber. Here the stone floor was carpeted with
rugs I recognized as Caledonese; we had similar in Homana-Mujhar, including my
bedchamber. Lighted braziers warmed the room. There were no casements; I could
not stare out and search for Erinn from the top of the dragon's head.

           
"Someone will come," the
boy announced, and then he shut the door.

           
Alone, I looked around the room.
Chairs, a table, a chest, a jug of wine and silver goblets. Having nothing
better to do, I poured myself a cup.

           
Not wine. It was a clear, pungent
liquor. I lifted the goblet, recognized the powerful contents and set it down
again. "Usca," I said in surprise.

           
"Trade routes," a voice
commented equably. "All the way from the Steppes to Atvia." As I
turned the man smiled and shut the door. "I am not Ihlini, Niall; did you
think I conjured it?"

           
Alaric. I knew him at once, though I
had never seen him. Once, my mother had described him to me, telling me how he
had come to Homana seeking the Mujhar's sister as a wife. Then, she said, he
had been tall, slender, brown-haired, brown-eyed. Handsome, she had added, if
you liked men with silken manners and silver tongues.

           
Bronwyn had not, but she had wed him
anyway. My father had given her no choice.

           
Nineteen years had passed since
then-I thought he was a year or two older than my father. He looked younger than
his years, though time and wars had roughened the too-smooth edges. He had not
thickened, maintaining a tensile slenderness, and he moved with an awareness of
a subtle but acknowledged strength. In body as well as spirit.

           
In understated black, he put me in
mind of Strahan. He reminded me of Lillith.

           
He smiled. His Homanan was quite
good. His accent was very slight. "You are well come to Atvia.
Although—for a moment—I thought it was a dead man standing before me."

           
"Carillon." I forced a
smile, as always. "No."

           
Alaric moved to the table and poured
usca for us both.

           
Out of courtesy I accepted the
goblet; I have no taste for usca. "I met Carillon once," he said
reminiscently. "I was but a boy, no older than Belen, but I knew enough to
be impressed. It was not long after Tynstar had stolen twenty years of his
life. Already the disease ate away at his bones." Still smiling, he drank.
I did not.

           
"My lord—" I began.

           
"I never saw him again."
Clearly, Alaric was not finished. Until he was, he had no intention of allowing
me to speak. "When my brother slew him, I was here. Beating back Erinnish
wolfhounds form my shores." Alaric continued to smile.

           
I set down my goblet with a thud.
Usca slopped over the rim. "It was for you to end my captivity."

           
If my curtness surprised him, Alaric
did not show it.

           
Politely he set down his own cup—he
would not drink if I did not—and motioned calmly for me to be seated. I
considered refusing. But my stiffening thigh ached and my head still rang from
Liam's blow. I sat down.

           
"It was for me to end your
captivity." Alaric sat down and crossed his legs. His boots, I saw, bore
massive spurs of rune-worked gold. "And did you curse me for not doing it
while you bedded Deirdre of Erinn?"

           
The breath ran out of my chest. There
were no words in my mouth; no aborted explanation. Not before this man; he was
Gisella's father.

           
Alaric rubbed idly at his
clean-shaven chin. His manner was calm, too calm; he put me in mind of a cat
waiting for the mouse to jump. "Well?"

           
"You ally yourself with Strahan
and the Ihlini. Against my father."

           
A comer of his mouth twitched in
amusement. He knew very well why I altered the subject. "What I do is my
own concern." He shifted minutely in the chair. The golden spurs glinted.
Oddly, they reminded me of lir-bands. "I have no intention of filling your
head with Atvian history, Niall. Suffice it to say it was never my wish to give
my fealty to Donal." He shrugged a little, dismissing it. "We are
uneasy bedmates at best. He takes—I give. And I am weary of it."

           
I stood up "My lord, if you
have no intention of honoring the alliance, I have no intention of listening to
you."

           
"Sit down," he told me
coolly. "If I have ruffled your feathers, accept my apology. But I am
being frank with you, Niall. You are not a boy any longer."

           
No, I was not. The quick anger and
affrontedness spilled away almost at once; I sat down. It would harm nothing to
listen to the man.

           
"Think of what I would gain if
the alliance were ended," he suggested.

           
"War," I answered
promptly. "And my father has beaten you once."

           
Brown eyes narrowed a little. He
studied me a moment. And then he smiled. "War. But even Homana grows
weaker when the wars drag on for decades." Politeness forgone, he reached
out and took up his goblet, swallowing usca again. "You are here," he
said. "A trifle tardy, perhaps, but that is no fault of yours. I see no
reason for invalidating the proxy wedding. Gisella would be—disturbed."

           
He spoke so calmly of his daughter
and the wedding when he knew about Deirdre and me. I wondered uneasily how he
had gotten his information. If he had a loyal Atvian servant somewhere in
Kilore—or, for that matter, a disloyal Erinnish one—Shea and everyone else
could be in danger.

           
"My lord, if you truly wish to
let this marriage go forth, why did you not give in to Shea's demands?"

           
"Because I give in to no
one."

           
It was my turn to smile. "But
you gave in to my father. I know all about it. You knelt on the floor and
kissed his sword and swore fealty to him."